Out of the Dark
by Keegan Elizabeth
Summary: But the days pass and slip into weeks and you no longer can ignore the signs in front of you, flashing like the neon lights of Vegas’ casinos. Early S8, Grissom's POV.


A/N: Another thousand thank you's to Sara, who is such a wonderful friend.

Disclaimer: No ownership is meant or implied by writing this story. Neither CSI nor its characters belong to me.

* * *

She hides it well, but you know.

Maybe right after it happened, you didn't. It, being her desert ordeal – that's what you begin to think of it as, because 'crazy psycho kidnaps the only woman you ever loved and leaves her to die out in the desert' sounds all too wordy and overly dramatic.

So it's true you didn't notice much of anything afterward, except _her_. Her, whole and in one piece and the red blood still flowing through her veins, reminding everyone (but most of all you) that she is thankfully, gloriously alive.

It's all you can focus on; it's all you really care about.

She is alive. Maybe bruised, burned, and a little worse for wear, but still you can hold her in your arms and can kiss her goodnight and good morning and you can tell her that you love her.

It's all too easy to blame it on the desert too, her healing, her adjusting; anything else. You don't want to think too much, analyze too much because you're just so grateful that she's there.

She's good too; really good actually.

But the days pass and slip into weeks and you no longer can ignore the signs in front of you, flashing like the neon lights of Vegas' casinos. You are a scientist, a trained observer. It is what you do, it's who you are; it's all you know. You follow the evidence.

You realize you haven't seen her smile – not really, not that smile that makes her eyes light up when she's really truly happy – or laugh lately. You love the sound of her laughter. When did it stop sounding real and natural, and become so forced?

--

It's not like she's not doing anything at all. She's getting up, going to work, solving the cases; coming home, spending time with you when schedules coincide, playing with Bruno…

You know something's wrong though, you can feel it, but you don't know how to make it right.

It seems as if she's just going through the motions of living, without really living.

When you see her, you ask how she's doing. "Fine." You ask how her day has gone. "Fine."

She gives the same one word answer with the same half smile, the smile that doesn't seem to ring true anymore.

You're not oblivious to what's going on but still you don't know what to do to make it better. It doesn't matter what you ask or how you ask, her answer's always made up of the same variation of "I'm fine, promise" or "Nothing's wrong."

How can you break through when it feels like she's put up an invisible wall?

You're not a temperamental man by nature, but suddenly it's like all you want to do is throw something, anything. Doesn't matter what, you just want to watch whatever it is break into a thousand little pieces because that's what you feel is slowly happening to the life you have built with her. You see it coming like a storm. You see the cracks starting to show, you feel the life you have with her beginning to shatter and you don't know how to keep it together.

You want to scream, or shake her, something… anything to make her see that you're trying. To make her care.

It's killing you to see her struggle to find her way out of the dark, and you're left feeling completely helpless because she won't let you in.

If she was in physical pain, physically sick, you would know what to do. Get her a cool cloth, make her some soup, give her some medicine; take her to the doctor, if needed. The cure's easy.

But this, this emotional pain – so intangible – what's the cure to that?

You've never been the person who always knows the right thing to say, or who excels at expressing your feelings. It's never really bothered you either, until now. Now you wish you knew the right thing to say, you wish you could make her understand that you would do anything you could to make her happy.

--

You sit on the couch working the Sunday's NY Times crossword puzzle with pen in hand. She's next to you, wearing a pair of worn boxers and your Williams college sweatshirt. Her half-eaten container of yogurt sits on the coffee table that Bruno lies under, head down and eyes closed, snoring happily.

Low sounds of Mozart's piano concerto No. 21 float through the air mixing with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg from the candles she had lit earlier.

You turn to say something – make some idle comment – and the haunted look you find in her eyes makes you want to gather her close and promise her everything, even though you know it's not possible.

Laying down the puzzle and pen on the coffee table, you ask her what's wrong.

"Nothing," she replies and smiles, rising from the couch and taking your hand in hers. "Come here," she says, framing your face with her hands and leaning in to kiss you softly before leading you back to bed.

--

It's a sunny, brilliant day when she comes to visit you while you're studying the bee colony you'd taken from the Macalino's attic.

She's there.

You're there.

And you think you just might see a ghost of a real smile on her face. You want to do whatever it takes to keep it there, to keep her here; to make her happy.

You propose.

It's not the most romantic proposal or the most romantic setting but she says yes anyway and for a moment your heart feels lighter than it has in weeks because you think 'This is it finally, everything's going to be all right.'

You love her, she loves you. It's enough… it has to be.

--

One month later, you learn that it's not as you read the words of her goodbye letter.

When you finish reading the last line, you crumple up the letter and throw it against the wall. It doesn't break into a thousand little pieces, but it doesn't really matter anyway because your heart already did.

* * *

A/N2: Trying my hand at something a bit different, stylistically and in content. Do you feel it worked well, or no? Constructive criticism's appreciated.


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